


Yield Under Pressure

by writeonclara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent due to Sex Pollen, Fuck Or Die, Guilt, M/M, Marathon Sex, Pining, Rimming, Romance, Sex Pollen, mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: Aziraphale’s eyes crack back to him, like a pistol whip. The fixed look enters his gaze again. Crowley stares flatly back. He’s been an apex predator for far longer than Aziraphale ever has. But then Aziraphale wrenches his eyes away and roughly shakes his head. “I really don’t. I—that is to say—she—”“Who?” Crowley demands furiously. “Michael? Beezlebub?”“Second.”Anger bubbles up in Crowley’s chest, but he tamps it down. It can wait. “What did she do?”“I don’tknow, Crowley!” It’s almost like their normal bickering, except Aziraphale is shaking so hard that Crowley can hear his wings rustle. “She said—she—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “‘Fall, or die. The choice is yours’.”OR: Aziraphale is hit with sex pollen. Crowley helps him through it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt here: https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=584296#cmt584296

Beezlebub’s lurking outside A.Z. FELL AND Co. She’d cause quite the stir if there were anyone around, what with the dozens of flies crawling around her face, but the street’s empty. That in itself is a screaming red klaxon. This part of Soho is _never_ empty, not even in the dead of night, and especially not during a mild summer afternoon.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” says Aziraphale, keeping one hand on the doorknob. Dash it. It’s been nearly a year and a half since the failed Armageddon. Why _now_? He really should call Crowley, but doesn’t want to reach into his pocket for his mobile (the one Crowley insisted he get specifically for situations like this). Right now, she would likely take it as a threat and try her luck with Hellfire again, despite his reputation. 

Beezlebub smiles a peculiar little smile. Then she lifts both her hands and blows into her palms. A cloud of brown dust swirls up to surround Aziraphale’s face. He staggers back into his thick oak doors, scrabbling for the doorknob again and coughing, then belatedly stops breathing, horrified. He doesn’t even need to breathe. Why in Heaven did he pick up the stupid habit? Oh no. Oh _dear_. 

The dust vanishes. Beezlebub’s face splits into a grin. “You have two options, angel: fall, or die.” She holds out her hands and shrugs. “The choice is yours.”

Aziraphale’s hand finds the doorknob and he grabs onto it like a lifeline, shoving his door open. He falls back into the bookshop, wings sprouting from his back, abrupt and unbeckoned. The door swings shut on Beezlebub’s maniacal laughter.

Aziraphale staggers up the stairs that lead to his flat, one hand tugging at his bow tie, wings dragging behind him like the cape of a fallen king. He catches himself against the wall and has to stop. It’s too hot. It’s too—bloody—hot. He _burns_.

Pressing his forehead against the cool wall, he takes a moment to catch his breath, before stumbling into the room at the end of the hall.

Aziraphale lands hard on his knees in the middle of what should be a bedroom. It’s empty of all furniture, but still feels too small, like a prison cell. One that he will likely die in. He tips forward, catching himself on the hardwood floor with shaking hands.

“Oh, bugger,” he gasps.

* * *

“An_gel_,” Crowley singsongs, sauntering through A.Z. FELL AND Co., bag slung over one arm. A new crepe shop had opened up in France, and Crowley really is a sentimental dumbass sometimes. 

There’s no response.

“Huh.” He was certain the angel would be home—they’d had plans for the evening, and it’s unlike Aziraphale to flake on him—especially not now, when they were both free from Divine and Occult responsibilities. He tries holding up the bag in invitation. “I’ve brought you something.”

Silence.

Crowley glances over his shoulder. The door to the bookshop had been unlocked; Aziraphale had to be somewhere. Mentally shrugging off his sudden unease, he rambles up the stairs, whistling Aziraphale’s favorite Chopin concerto, _Under Pressure_.

“You didn’t ditch me, did you, angel?” asks Crowley, cheerfully, peering around the corner and down a short hallway. It’s entirely possible that Aziraphale heard something about how one can acquire old books from eBay and tripped off to Egmont Bight.

Crowley’s never actually been up here before; for the most part, they spend their evenings in the furnished back rooms. As far as he knows, _Aziraphale_ doesn’t even bother coming up here. Except for now, apparently.

The rich, gleaming red wood from downstairs is carried to the upper floor, along with the hideous red Persian rugs. Bit too mildewy, though, and there’s certainly not enough air circulating through the cramped hall. Stagnating. It’s got no _life_ up here, not like the shop, which is full up with—well, with Aziraphale.

Crowley slides off his sunglasses, dropping them onto an inner pocket. There’s very little light; no window, and he can’t easily spot a light switch. No matter—he’s always had excellent night vision, and it’s not long before he spots the footprints in the dust leading up to a room at the end of the hall. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, pushing the door open. The bag drops out of suddenly nerveless fingers, landing with a quiet thump on the bare floor. 

Aziraphale is kneeled in the middle of the empty room, head bowed, wings drooping limply behind him, sweat dripping from his forehead to the floor. He’s panting with his mouth open, hands curled into claws on his thighs, and his eyes are fixed blindly ahead of him.

“_Aziraphale?_” Crowley gasps, taking a step towards him. “What happened to y—”

“_Stay back_,” Aziraphale snarls. Crowley automatically falls back, lifting his hands in supplication. 

“What happened to you?” Crowley repeats, chest tightening with panic. 

Aziraphale’s head snaps up, gray eyes zeroing in on Crowley. For a moment, he looks exactly like an apex predator, eyes flat and fixed and—and _hungry_. But then his face crumbles, like the slow collapse of a building during an earthquake. He tries to stand, but overbalances and falls back, and then scrambles on all fours to the other side of the room. “Oh no, not you, my dear. Please, not you. You _must_ go.”

“Excuse me, but there is no way in Heaven or Hell I’d leave you like _this_.”

“You must. Oh, you _must_,” Aziraphale begs, true terror gleaming in his eyes. “Crowley, _please_. I beg of you. I can’t—”

“Tell me what happened, angel,” Crowley says, keeping his voice calm even as panic wants to claw its way up his throat. He crouches down to one knee, trying to make himself as least threatening as possible. “I can help. Just tell me.”

“I—I—” Aziraphale stutters. He seems to have trouble focusing on one thing, eyes flying around the room, occasionally landing on Crowley before darting away again. All the color has left his face, save for two red splotches high on his cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s eyes crack back to him, like a pistol whip. The fixed look enters his gaze again. Crowley stares flatly back. He’s been an apex predator for far longer than Aziraphale ever has. But then Aziraphale wrenches his eyes away and roughly shakes his head. “I really don’t. I—that is to say—she—”

“Who?” Crowley demands furiously. “Michael? Beezlebub?”

“Second.”

Anger bubbles up in Crowley’s chest, but he tamps it down. It can wait. “What did she do?”

“I don’t _know_, Crowley!” It’s almost like their normal bickering, except Aziraphale is shaking so hard that Crowley can hear his wings rustle. “She said—she—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “‘Fall, or die. The choice is yours’.”

Crowley goes down on both knees. He wants to crawl across the floor, gather the angel up in both his arms, but Aziraphale has erected an impenetrable barrier between the two of them. 

“Crowley.” A tear slips out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t—”

“Tell me what you need, angel. Let me help you.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “You need to go. While I’m still in—in my right mind.”

“If you think I’m just going to leave you here to die, then you’re already out of your fucking mind!” Crowley shouts.

Silence settles over the room in a suffocating blanket. Aziraphale blinks rapidly, then folds his knees under him. They kneel across from each other in the empty room, the light from the setting sun bathing the room a tarnished gold.

“Tell me what you need,” says Crowley, quietly.

“You,” says Aziraphale, nearly whispering.

Crowley climbs to his feet. Unknots the thin scarf around his neck and lets it drop to the floor. Aziraphale stares up at him, his expression slipping into something inhuman again. His stubborn, _brave_ angel.

Crowley steps forward. Meets some resistance from the barrier. He shrugs off his suit jacket and takes another step forward, and the barrier gives way, before snapping up again, holding him in place.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale snarls, wild eyed. “I _won’t_. I’d rather be discorporated—I’d rather burn in Hellfire for eternity than _force you_.”

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Crowley soothes. He’s within touching distance, but Aziraphale has his arms pinned to his sides. “You’re not forcing me. Take whatever you need—I give it to you willingly.”

Aziraphale’s expression cracks down the middle, and the barrier drops. “_Crowley_.”

“I know, darling,” Crowley says, and reaches for him.

* * *

Crowley is the worst.

He drops his head. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and around one eyebrow, into his eyelashes. He blinks; it falls. His knees grate against the wood floors, but he barely notices it, panting open-mouthed. 

He’d prepared himself to be thoroughly fucked with zero prep, but Aziraphale, the contradictory asshole, still hasn’t even stuck his dick into him despite Crowley already coming twice. He hasn’t even taken off his goddamned _coat_.

“Az—Aziraph—ah!” His nails dig grooves into the floor as Aziraphale drags the flat of his tongue into Crowley’s ass. Aziraphale’s fingers press bruises into Crowley’s waist, but at his name, he slides his hands down to grab Crowley’s ass, spreading him open to lick deeper. Crowley lets out a choked sob, scrabbling at the floor. “Fuck!”

Crowley is the worst.

Aziraphale didn’t want this. He’d begged Crowley to leave, had told him to his face he’d rather _die_, and yet here Crowley is, overcome by the sins of his weak, pathetic body, writhing in Heavenly ecstasy as Aziraphale’s tongue plunders into him, sloppy, eager, _desperate_, like he can’t get enough of how Crowley tastes. Spit leaks from his ass to drip down his tight balls and bobbing cock. Crowley tries to thrust back, wild for more, but Aziraphale holds him in place, inexorable.

Aziraphale didn’t want this, and Crowley is the worst because he did—he _does_, and has done, wants _everything_, with every fiber of his being, for all the years he’s walked this forsaken planet. He’s the worst because even though Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to do this with him, Crowley would greedily take whatever scraps he could get from the angel, freely given or not.

Crowley is the _worst_, because this Aziraphale, the one only just clinging to the threads of control, vibrating with barely banked passion, is _furiously_ hot. If Crowley wasn’t already damned for eternity, he’d probably have another couple of centuries tacked onto his sentence for that thought alone.

And then Aziraphale curls his tongue, experimental, humming with pleasure at the taste of him, and Crowley comes with a shocked groan, cock untouched.

* * *

Crowley thumps down on his back with a gasp, and Aziraphale’s hands wrap around his hips, dragging him close. Dusk has slipped into night. The only light is from the dim streetlights and the occasional headlight of a turning car angled perfectly to flood the room. Crowley’s back arches off the floor when Aziraphale drives back into him with one torturously slow thrust, wings stretching out behind him. 

Still white.

Aziraphale pulls back out so that the tip of his cock brushes his entrance, watching Crowley with flat eyes. He’s still in there, but just barely—Crowley catches glimpses of him when he reaches down to caress the side of Crowley’s face with one shaky hand, or cup the back of his head when he shoves him to the floor, so sweet even when he’s out of his mind with desire. And then he thrusts back into Crowley, bottoming out in one quick snap of his hips.

“Oh, _fuck_,” Crowley cries, pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes so hard that red spots dance behind his eyelids.

“Look at me,” Aziraphale orders, catching both of Crowley’s wrists with one hand and pinning them over his head.

Crowley’s sight blurs. He blinks several times. The tears fall, his vision clears, and Aziraphale looms over him, his face twisted in horrified agony. He looks completely fucking heartbroken, which is just—_no_. Aziraphale snatches his hand away from Crowley’s wrists as if Crowley’s burned him with Hellfire.

“Oh, my dear. I’m so very sorry—”

“_No!_” Crowley shouts, flailing until he catches one of Aziraphale’s wrists in both his hands. He draws it down to his face, then leans his cheek against his palm. “No. It’s good, Aziraphale. It’s _too_ good. I’m just—overwhelmed.”

“You don’t deserve to be used like this—”

“Yes, but I _want_ it.” It’s the truest thing he’s ever said, even though Aziraphale is looking like him like he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. So he rolls his hips again, demanding, and the horror slips back into rhapsody. Aziraphale matches Crowley’s thrusts, but soon loses control of the rhythm, fucking into Crowley brutally hard. 

It’s fine. It’s what Crowley wants.

* * *

Insatiable.

The hazy twilight is slipping into a red dawn. They’re kneeling, Aziraphale’s knees bracketing Crowley’s legs. This position doesn’t offer much room for deep thrusts, but Aziraphale is slowly rolling his hips, face buried in Crowley’s neck, one hand gripping his hip, the other arm wrapped around his chest, hand flat over his heart. Crowley reaches over his head to sink his hand into Aziraphale’s sweat-damp curls. He’s been slowing down for the past half hour, no longer fucking into Crowley as if he’ll fly apart at the atoms if he doesn’t. 

“Alright, angel?” Crowley murmurs. 

In response, Aziraphale draws back far enough to press his hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades, urging him to bend down. Crowley goes willingly, bracing himself on bruised elbows. He’s expecting Aziraphale to start ruthlessly fucking him again, but instead he leans down to snake an arm around his sweat-slick stomach and wraps a hand around his dick. 

Crowley forces his wobbly arms to support him. Now. Now Aziraphale will fuck him.

But then Aziraphale leans down at bites his shoulder blade, latching on possessively, right where his wing would start if he had them out. Crowley shouts in surprise, his spent dick spilling out a small pearl of come. It’s too fucking much, even for an occult being, and Crowley’s vision whites out.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley slowly blinks his eyes open. He turns his head to the window. The sun is low in the sky—still early, then. He stretches languidly, entire body feeling wrung out and oddly empty, skin buzzing with the after effects of being well and truly fucked. One foot slides over soft sheets, and Crowley sits up, frowning. Huh. That’s new. There definitely wasn’t a bed in here a couple of hours ago. 

An ultra-soft fleece blanket slides off his chest to pool around his waist. Crowley snorts. Of course. Of course it’s bloody _tartan_.

He looks down at himself. He’s—clean. There’s zero evidence from last night (the night before?) besides darkening bruises and cherry red love bites. He’s almost a little too clean, like if someone rubbed a finger up his arm, his skin would squeak. He drags his eyes away from himself to look around the room. It’s been transformed into a—it’s a _room_, a proper room, with two nightstands bracketing a beautiful redwood bed and that hideous red Persian rug Aziraphale insists on having everywhere covering the hardwood floor. Lining one wall is a sturdy bookshelf, but the books are scattered across the shelves haphazardly, as if Aziraphale had included them as an afterthought. He’s even added curtains to the window, deep red, and drawn to the sides to let in the sun. It’s all so perfectly Aziraphale, cozy, outdated, and all the different styles clashing a bit.

On one nightstand, there’s a glass of water next to a purple hyacinth potted in a stone bowl. The flower for apology.

“Dammit, angel,” Crowley murmurs, then grabs the water and drinks the entire thing in one go. Filled with a sudden fury, he heaves the glass against the wall. The resulting shatter is momentarily satisfying, before he’s again filled with helpless rage at how _unfair_ it all is. He tips his back and glares thunderously at the ceiling.

“Please,” he says, his expression slipping from fury into desperation. “Don’t let him fall. It wasn’t his fault—he wasn’t in control. And I was willing. Do you hear me? I wanted it. I was _willing_. He’s the best angel you’ve got—the only worthy one in your entire Host of Bastards Upstairs. _Don’t_ let him fall.”

* * *

Aziraphale is sitting in his backroom, hands wrapped around a cold mug of cocoa, staring at nothing. He’s been sitting there from anywhere between twenty-four hours (twenty-three hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-one seconds), and a millennia. His mind tries to process the events from the night before, but it keeps shorting out in a benevolent method of self-preservation before he can delve too deeply into the details.

He thinks, inchoate, _I did that—to my best friend—_

He thinks, secret and dark, _But he seemed like he wanted—_

Aziraphale sinks his head in his hands, disgusted with himself. Before he can succumb to self-loathing and despair, footsteps thunder down his stairs and his backroom door slams open. Aziraphale looks up. Crowley stands there, panting, one hand still on the door, the other holding up a tartan fleece blanket wrapped around his thin hips. For an endless moment, they watch each other in silence.

“I was—worried you’d left,” Crowley admits. His must realize how he looks, because embarrassment flashes in his eyes, and then he snaps and he’s dressed again in his usual henley, jeans, and suit coat. 

Aziraphale is a terrible angel, the absolute worst kind, because he can’t help the hot crack of disappointment that Crowley’s completely dressed again.

The skin over Crowley’s eyebrows scrunches in a confused frown. He’s always been so good at reading Aziraphale, can pick up every stray thought that fires through his mind. Aziraphale breaks eye contact and looks down at his hands. They’re trembling. He folds them together.

“I did think about it. Leaving, that is,” Aziraphale admits. “But it didn’t seem right.”

Crowley crosses the room, but he stops a full two metres away, hesitant, like he’s not sure where his boundaries are anymore. Aziraphale’s fault, of course.

Aziraphale forces himself to look Crowley in the eye, even though all he wants to do is turn away and hide his face in shame. “I owe you the biggest apology, my d—Crowley. You can’t imagine how dreadfully sorry I am. You must believe me that I would have never done that without being under the influence of—”

He falters. Crowley’s lips had parted during Aziraphale’s apology, but when Aziraphale says the last bit, they firm up in a thin, furious line. No. Rather—he looks _hurt_. Furious, Aziraphale could understand. He has every right to fly into a rage, to demand retribution of some sort. But—why hurt?

Crowley slides his hands into his back pockets and leans back on his heels, casually insouciant. “Never, huh?” he says.

“Not like that!” Aziraphale snaps, exploding out of his chair in a sudden, impotent rage. “How could you ever think I would want to force you—!” He wrenches his body around and stalks away, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. 

“I enjoyed it.”

Aziraphale stops. Slowly turns back to him.

Crowley’s lips are upturned at the corners, but the expression on his face can hardly be called a smile. “You’re sitting here, beating yourself up about forcing me, when the entire time I was thinking, _more, please._” His mouth twists in a grimace filled with self-loathing. It’s an expression entirely unfamiliar on his face. Crowley may not be particularly fond of other demons, but he’s never made it a secret that he doesn’t regret falling. Especially since it means he gets to be here, on Earth. And he certainly doesn’t hate himself. Crowley has always loved being _Crowley_, has never apologized for being too loud, or too flash, or too wicked. But now his lips are pulled back in a hateful sneer, directed entirely at himself. “You may not have wanted it, angel, but I did. Still do. And I enjoyed every second of it. I _loved_ the way you fucked me, barely in control. If I had my way, I’d keep you in bed with me for the rest of eternity.” He spreads his hands in a shrug. “So who’s the real monster here? You, or me?”

It’s interesting, the way human bodies have evolved to externally display their emotions, whether or not they want to. Bodies issued to angels and demons can, unfortunately, be just as unpredictable. Aziraphale can feel the vasodilation in his cheeks and across the back of his neck, the sudden wild palpitations of his all too human heart. “You—wanted me to—to have sex with you.”

Crowley looks like he would dearly love to shift into a snake and slither away, but instead he grins recklessly at him. Aziraphale immediately recognizes it as the one he plasters on when he’s deeply uncomfortable. “To fuck me senseless, yes. Which, by the way, _excellent_ job that. Well done you.” He leers and waggles his eyebrows lasciviously.

Aziraphale ignores his transparent attempts at prevaricating, although his cheeks do burn hotter at the reminder. “And—what about”—he clears his throat—“making love to you?”

Now Crowley really does look panicked. Aziraphale immediately breaks his promise to himself to never again touch Crowley and covers the short distance to grab his arm before he can make a break for it.

Crowley looks wildly around for an escape. Finding none, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Only if I’m lucky,” he says, like the admission has been ripped out of him.

Relief surges through Aziraphale like a riptide, so violent that he has to close his eyes for a second to compose himself. When he opens them again, Crowley’s covered his own face with his free hand.

“Crowley.”

“That was bloody embarrassing.” And indeed, Aziraphale can see the red hot blush creeping up his neck.

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s wrist with his other hand and gently draws it away from his face. Crowley’s expression is twisted in misery and his eyes are lowered, like he can’t bear to look at Aziraphale. Like he honestly believes he’s about to be rejected. “Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, pressing their foreheads together. He doesn’t pull back, even when Crowley takes in a deep, shuddering breath. Then he does draw back, so that he can stare into Crowley’s eyes. “One of the many reasons why I was so horrified at Beezlebub’s drug—I mean, besides the obvious—was that I’ve wanted to—ah, that is to say—” He takes a deep breath, centering himself. Crowley deserves the truth, now more than ever. “I love you, and I have wanted to—to make love to you for centuries, if not longer. But not like that, my dear. Not when neither of us were in complete control.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, faintly. His huge eyes have grown impossibly wide. “So we’re on the same page.”

“Very much so,” says Aziraphale, watching him back.

Crowley’s pupils visibly dilate. There’s real happiness shining from his eyes, even as he leers an inviting grin at Aziraphale. “Soo,” he drawls. “What was that you said about making love?”

* * *

Honestly, Crowley never did understand the difference between ‘making love’ versus ‘fucking,’ beyond the flowery bullshit tropes in the worst kinda of romance novels. To him, they’re the same thing. Insert tab A into slot B and thrust vigorously until one or more participants gets their rocks off.

He has never been more wrong.

* * *

Beneath Crowley’s back, the sheets are slippery and cool. Or maybe his body is just overheated. Overeager. Overstimulated. He squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming out in short, quiet gasps, punctuated by desperate moans.

When Crowley had tried to touch him, Aziraphale had caught his hand and stopped him. _“Not yet, my dear,”_ he’d said. _“I need to—please let me show you. How I really feel.”_

And so, in the light of the new morning, Aziraphale worships him.

“_Fuck_,” Crowley half-sobs, as Aziraphale takes his time exploring his body like he didn’t have the mind to do when they first had sex, mapping the thin bones of his Achille’s heel with his tongue, up to the soft skin behind one knee, to the sensitive insides of his thighs. One hand has been between Crowley’s legs for the better part of half an hour, slowly working him open with the assistance of hastily miracled lube. “Fucking—hell! Will you just fuck me already, Aziraphale?” he demands, though it slips into a plea at the end.

Aziraphale presses a kiss against the inside of his thigh, above his knee, then draws back just far enough to speak. “But I haven’t got to the best part,” he murmurs, which is _such_ a line, and then the bastard trails wet kisses up the curve of his dick, and Crowley digs his fingers so hard into the bed that he punches holes directly into mattress. Aziraphale hums, pleased, and then ducks back down to drag the flat of his tongue in an experimental lick from the base of Crowley’s cock to the tip.

“A-Aziraphale,” Crowley stutters, body tensing. He flails one hand, grabbing the short hair at the back of Aziraphale’s head and giving a little tug. “I’m gonna co—”

As if this is a command instead of a warning, Aziraphale wraps his lips around the tip of Crowley’s dick.

Crowley’s back arches off the bed as his orgasm rips out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and snarls out his pleasure, wild from being so thoroughly _adored_. He’s kept on Earth solely by the strong hand on his thigh and the lips that eventually pull back to scatter butterfly kisses up his stomach, to his ribs.

This is—this is—

This is Aziraphale telling Crowley, with appreciative kisses and lingering caresses, how much he loves him, and Crowley is _staggered_. Completely blown away. He didn’t know. He had no _idea_. But the depth of Aziraphale’s love is so evident in the way he presses soft, reverential kisses up Crowley’s ribs, over his wildly beating heart.

“You gigantic sap,” says Crowley, although his own voice is thick with emotion.

Aziraphale bites his nipple in retribution.

Something in Crowley snaps. He explodes into action, grabbing at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Aziraphale, _please_. _Fuck me_, or—or let me touch you, or—”

Aziraphale surges up and covers his mouth with his own. Instinctively—immediately—Crowley arches into it, flinging his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, and—oh. This is the first time they’ve kissed. And Aziraphale is telling him, in yet another way, how much he loves Crowley. Passionately. Ardently. With a little bit of teeth.

And then Aziraphale’s drawing out his fingers, and even though Crowley has been begging to be fucked for _forever_, he still growls in protest, grasping at Aziraphale’s arm in an attempt to draw him back in. Aziraphale grabs his hand, tangling their fingers together, and then he’s sliding into Crowley in one wet, inexorable push. Crowley has to break away from the kiss with a desperate groan, ducking his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut. He rolls his hips up to meet Aziraphale thrusts, coasting his free hand around his back and up between his shoulder blades—

“Angel,” gasps Crowley. “Aziraphale—wait.”

Aziraphale immediately freezes. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Do you need to stop?”

“N-no,” Crowley stutters, grabbing Aziraphale’s hips before he can pull out. He clears his throat. “No. It’s just—can you show me your wings?”

Aziraphale looks confused for a moment. Then his expression melts into surprised wonder, and then he looks _embarrassingly_ in love. “Of course, my dear.”

He untangles their fingers and pushes himself up with one hand, the other sliding up to cup the side of Crowley’s face, staring down at him with so much fucking love that Crowley has to blink several times, and Aziraphale slowly stretches his wings out behind him: brilliant, untainted, unmarred, _angellically_ white.

“Oh, thank God,” says Crowley.


End file.
